


i remember your name ('cause you sang it to me often)

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [5]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson bows his head and picks at the hem on the inside of his trouser leg. “People talk, you know.”</p><p>Barton is honestly, legitimately and entirely confused. </p><p>Coulson looks up at him, a strange smile on his face. “About you and me, Barton.” He nods at the foamy water. “And they don’t even know about how you run baths for me after a long day at the office.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i remember your name ('cause you sang it to me often)

Coulson knows the name of everyone who works for SHIELD. He doesn’t know all the contractors who come in and out but he literally knows everyone else, from the tea-boy (because they have one of those) to every last nurse in Medical (because he has to apologise to them personally for the behaviour of the Avengers).

 

When there’s an attack at lunch-hour, Coulson’s the one whose shoulder is half-wrenched out of its socket trying to apprehend a man on a fucking motorbike. Coulson’s the one whose hands are bloody as he does his utmost to comfort a dying man while coordinating an Avengers counter-strike over comms. Everyone’s too late. The bad guys get away and there are finger-trails of drying, dying blood on Coulson’s cheek and throat.

 

“Who was he?” asks Barton as Coulson wipes his hands on his suit trousers and the dead man is wheeled away on a gurney. There’s so much blood. It soaks through Coulson’s shirt and now it’s red and pink.

 

“Alex Henderson. R&D.” Coulson doesn’t say that Henderson was a good guy or that it’s a waste. He doesn’t need to. Not to Barton.

 

He nods towards Barton’s arm. “You’re injured.”  
  
Barton wants to say it’s just a scratch (because it is) but Coulson looks drained because the guy with limited combat experience bled out in his arms and Coulson couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

 

.

 

When Barton passes Coulson in the corridor later that day, he’s changed his clothes. He’s still wiping his hands on his suit trousers, though. Barton’s not sure if Coulson went to Medical but his arm’s not in a sling so he sort of doubts it.

 

There’s no point telling Coulson that the attack and Henderson’s death are not his fault because he’ll know that they’re not his fault. He’s probably been in briefings all day having that very fact reiterated. Barton pauses once he’s walked past him. He turns around.

 

“Agent Coulson?”  
  
Coulson stops, like maybe he was expecting the interruption. “Did you get stitched up, Barton?”

 

Barton nods. “Yeah. Molly gave me a lollipop. It was awesome.”  
  
There’s a shadow of a memory of a smile on Coulson’s face.

 

“C’mon, sir,” says Barton. “It’s been a long day. Why don’t you go home?” He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll drive?” It’s worth a shot.

 

That provokes a soft chuckle. “You’re not driving, Clint.”  
  
There’s a jolt in the approximate region of Clint’s heart. Or maybe it’s his oesophagus or something he ate. “Are you sure? You’re holding your right arm kind of funny.”

 

“And you have stitches in your right arm. You’re not driving.”

 

Coulson continues on his way. Barton stands there, rather dumbly, watching after him, until Coulson pauses and looks honestly puzzled. “Aren’t you coming?”

 

When they get back to Coulson’s apartment (and, true to his word, he didn’t let Barton drive), Coulson’s phone rings. It irritates Barton but Coulson is calm as he opens the front door. “Yes, Director Fury-“  
  
Barton sits on the couch as Coulson paces around. It’s a lot of _yes_ and _I understand_ and _he’s here, sir_ , which makes Barton raise his eyebrows questioningly. Coulson just shakes his head.

 

He’s not so good at sitting still when he’s not on the job so Barton gets up and starts to explore. He lifts up the magazines on the coffee table and sifts through them. He’s been here before, of course. He’s fallen asleep on this couch. He knows exactly how many paces it is to the front door and he’s figured out where Coulson keeps his guns. Still, he’s never looked past it all. He’s never looked for Coulson. He glances over and Coulson, _still_ on the phone, is standing in front of the window, rolling his shoulder slightly. Barton frowns when it becomes apparent that Coulson is trying to shrug out of his jacket. He walks over to him and doesn’t allow Coulson to object as he helps him, one sleeve and then the other. Coulson mouths _thank you_ at him before his brow creases and he’s giving Fury his undivided attention again.

 

Barton’s perimeter widens. He ventures into the kitchen and it’s pretty empty even though Coulson has a surprisingly high number of mismatched mugs in one of the cabinets and an impressive array of tea- and coffee-making facilities. There’s an unopened bottle of champagne in an otherwise empty wine rack and a six-pack of beer in the fridge.

 

He passes through the living room. Coulson’s forehead is now resting against the window pane and Barton tries to mime the international signal for _say you’re driving through a tunnel and about to lose signal_ but that mostly confuses Coulson. So, Barton wanders into the bedroom, which is rather spartan, although there’s a colourful, if inexpertly stitched, quilt on his bed.

 

Last stop, bathroom. There’s the usual array of paraphernalia and products and, unexpectedly, there’s a huge bath. Clint raises an eyebrow. Of course, that’s when inspiration strikes.

 

He doesn’t even hear Coulson over the sound of the running water and it’s only when Coulson clears his throat right next to him that he realizes he’s not alone.

  
“Answer me this, Barton.”  
  
“Why am I running a bath, sir?”  
  
Coulson nods.  Barton wins at observation. “Aren’t the facilities at HQ up to standard?”  
  
“The bath is for you, sir.”  
  
“Why are you running me a bath, Agent Barton?”

 

“Because you need one.” Barton gestures at Coulson’s shoulder. “You’re injured. You could have dislocated your shoulder-”

 

Coulson sighs and sits on the edge of the bath. “I’ve been dislocating this shoulder since a rugby match twenty-five odd years ago, Barton, and I can assure you that it's not that serious today. It’s not terminal. Don’t look so worried.”

 

Barton shuts off the water. “I still think you need to relax. Maybe drop the phone in there so you’ve a legitimate reason for not answering it-?”  
  
Coulson’s lips twitch. “Is that one of your tactics when you don’t want to talk to your superiors?”  
  
“I always answer your calls, sir.” Barton is affronted.

 

Coulson bows his head and picks at the hem on the inside of his trouser leg. “People talk, you know.”

 

Barton is honestly, legitimately and entirely confused.

 

Coulson looks up at him, a strange smile on his face. “About you and me, Barton.” He nods at the foamy water. “And they don’t even know about how you run baths for me after a long day at the office.”  
  
“It’s just one bath, sir.”  
  
There’s that strange smile again. Coulson tilts his chin towards the door. “Go on. Help yourself to a beer and whatever’s TiVoed.” He trails his hand in the water. “I’ll be out in a while.”

 

Barton nods, after a moment of staring blankly at Coulson. He pauses at the door. “Are you sure you won’t want me to scrub your back for you, sir?”

 

Coulson laughs and that’s enough of a victory for Barton for one day.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> +Thanks to feelschat, as always. This is in response to Bingo Prompt: "Bathing together." It's as close as the boys would let me get because Clint is, apparently, clueless.  
> +Title from The Frames' _Your Face_


End file.
